The Problem with Symmetry
by tardisblues
Summary: He's always thought that symmetry was highly overrated anyway.


**A/N: **This was written in response to a fic prompt on Tumblr by Korrawar, and I chose the prompt "dimple". Hope you like it!

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><p><strong>The Problem with Symmetry<strong>

The pre-dawn is hot, the heat oppressive, and not at all pleasant. His lower back aches, a fresh bruise blossoming right over his kidneys and spreading outs, greedy fingers sinking deep and twisting. It twinges when he turns and a lance of pain spears through him when he stretches his arms over his head, but he does it anyway because there's something refreshing about the pain. It awakens him, alighting all of the nerve endings in his body and making him feel _alive. _Even as he pulls a hissing breath through his clenched teeth, he relishes the sensation, only mildly concerned by the fact it takes a rock blast to the kidney to make him feel something.

Reaching for his shirt, Mako slides it into his arms, the sleeve catching on the bandage around his wrist, but he doesn't pull it over his head. His torso is slick with sweat, the result of the blanket of humidity that hovers in the air. It's solid and coats the skin, and it irritates him as much as it discomforts him. It's the kind of humidity that makes it difficult to breathe and impossible to sleep, which is why he's crawling out his tent before the sun's even risen.

Mako winces as he steps out of his tent, his side flaring with a pain that tells him he should take it easy, but he doesn't listen. He doesn't lift his hand to wipe away the sweat dotting his brow, though, because he doesn't want to push himself too far. It's stupid, the way he refuses to acknowledge that fact that he's hurt, but relishes the pain the hurt brings. It's so incredibly stupid yet it's also a relief not to feel responsible just this once, even if it's a responsibility towards himself.

Besides, the bruise will heal itself. They always do, even if it takes a little time.

Still, a part of him wishes there was a quick fix that would take away the hurt, and let the tingle of pain remain, if only for a little while, if only so he could memorize the feeling and store it away for later. He realizes that it's quite masochistic of him yet somehow he can't bring himself to care all that much as he crosses their small camp. Low, rumbling snores slip through the cracks in Bolin's rock tent and Naga, who is curled up in a tight ball next to Korra's tent, whimpers in her sleep as he draws near. Resisting the urge to reach out and pat the great dog's head, Mako shuffles over to their packs with the intention of locating a teapot and brewing some tea.

Except it's not that simple because it was Korra's turn to clean up the dinner mess and she never puts anything back in its right place, even though she claims it's right by her. "Typical," he grumbles, wishing he could grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she listened to him. He tried that once and it ended with him flat on his back, her knees on either side of his chest as she pumped her arms over her head, proclaiming victory as Bolin laughed himself right off his perch.

It's not a bitter memory, but it's also not a fond one, mostly because it was weeks before Bolin let it go, arms flailing and voice pitched deep in a cheap imitation of the incident. _Dumbass_, he thinks, though this time there's a fond quirk to his lips as he bends down to open up the nearest satchel. His side sings with pain and he does his best to ignore its call, but when the knot won't come undone under his gentle ministrations and he's forced to pull, the flare becomes too much. In lieu of gasping, he grasps the strings and gives a final tug, not expecting the knot to give so naturally, it does.

The resulting noise is colossal.

The metal pots bang against one another like two competing rumbles of thunder and what little amount of tins they do have smash against the hard ground with all of the grace of a hailstorm. Even though it's over in a second, it feels like it drags out, each crash individual and obscenely loud. He winces as each pot slips from the bag and yet he does nothing to reach out and grab them, knowing that it would be futile as the ruckus is sure to wake the entire camp. Besides, he can't actually move that fast when every muscle in his body is weighed down and stinging with pricks of fire.

So instead he closes his eyes and bows his head, waiting for the maelstrom that will be his younger brother, the lightest sleeper he has ever met in his entire life and thrower of all tantrums when pulled from said sleep. "Shit," he mumbles, irritated with himself but mostly the way one of the tins rolls all the way over to the entrance of Korra's tent.

Except Bolin doesn't charging out of his tent, rubbing his eyes and shouting about how he was just at the best part of his dream. He doesn't come stumbling out to wallop his older brother on the back of his head and swear revenge. In fact, Bolin's tent is decidedly peaceful, save for the faint snores that drift through the air.

Mako frowns, a delicate 'v' forming in the crest of his distinguished brow. He can't explain why he's worried when he should be relieved; it doesn't stop the anxiety from gnawing at his stomach. It's only a little ridiculous, the way he frets after his younger brother, but it's always been like that, just the two of them having each other's back. He ponders waking Bolin up just to make sure he's okay when there's a sound to his left.

When he looks over and sees her standing there, scratching the back of her hair and wearing the most perplexing expression, Mako isn't quite sure what to make of the way his stomach flips. Her hair is wild; her ponytail gone, her thick brown locks are a mess of tangles that hang about her shoulders, lending her a distinctly rumpled appearance. The piercing blue of her eyes is clouded by sleep, but they still shine brighter than even the most polished jewel. And as her mouth stretches into a yawn, he can't help thinking that there is something decidedly adorable of a sleepy Korra.

Unfortunately, the illusion is ruined as soon as she opens his mouth. "Nice one, Flame-o," she grumbled as she shuffles away from her tent, but not before bending down to collect to the tin at her feet. She holds it up to him and then gestures towards the mess at his feet, cocking an eyebrow. She doesn't have to say the words because it's written all over her face, every ounce of cuteness erased by the annoying smugness that seems to have settled deep into her every feature.

Mako grinds his teeth to prevent himself from saying what he truly wants to. "Thank you," he settles on instead, throwing her the most sarcastic smile that he can offer up before returning his stare to the pile at his feet. Inwardly, he groans, not because picking everything up is such a chore, but because he knows how much it's going to hurt. The ability to feel said pain might have been alluring in that it's a reminder that he's still capable of feeling, but now that it is beginning to settle deep into his muscles and permeate his bones, he doesn't find it all that attractive.

In fact, it's downright alarming.

Still, he doesn't want to give Korra any reason to be nice to him as her being nice to him is even more unbearable than her being short with him (it doesn't make any sense, but he hates feeling like he owes her one), so he puts on a brave face and swallows the cry that threatens to burst out from his lips when he crouches down. Pressing his lips together, he reaches for the first tin and then the second, which is only a few inches away from the next, but the distance feels vast. His side doesn't flare up so much as it simmers slowly, the pain growing like a flame, quick yet somehow achingly slow.

Something must read in his face because one minute, Korra's standing outside the entrance of her tent, her arms folded over her chest and her face a mask of disdainful amusement and then next, she's kneeling besides him, her hands hovering over his shoulder like she wants to place them against his skin, but she's hesitant.

"Mako," she says, the worry dispelling the sleep from her voice. "Are you –"

"I'm fine," he growls through clenched teeth before she can finish, shifting his body away from her.

The sigh Korra expels is overdramatic and annoyed, but when she speaks, there's concern in her voice – a concern not unlike the one he adopts when he's worried about Bolin. It doesn't take him by surprise because he's heard it in her voice before, though it _is _a little shocking that it's directed at him. "I can see that," she says, with a roll of her eyes. "Here," she continues when he tries to reach for the same tin. She pushes his arm to the side with her own and grabs it, shoving it into his hand.

As she does so, their fingers brush and it elicits the most peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach. He's never felt lightning before and he's certain that it doesn't feel like this because this? This is pleasant. It stirs warmth within him, which smolders and churns like molten lava, a slow creep from the pit of his stomach that spreads out to his every nerve ending. It's different from the pain that he felt when he first woke, but somehow the result is the same. Granted, this is a lot more pleasant and a hell of a lot more confusing. He can't help it; he likes it.

Her eyes snap to his and they stare at each other for a quick moment, then she clears her throat and retracts her hand. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see her shaking out her fingers and he wonders if she felt the same thing. It's doubtful, given that he's not even sure what that thing is. Most likely it's his mind trying to tell him that he's more hurt than he wants to believe, but there was something about her touch, the gentle caress of her skin against the bare flesh of his knuckles.

It hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt.

"You really know how to make a mess, don't you?" Korra teases, stumbling over her tongue as she leans forward to collect more of the scattered tins. As she does so, the hem of her standard blue tank top rides up, exposing the smooth expanse of warm brown skin that is the small of her back. He's not quite sure why he stares at it, but he does, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away. When she reaches for the last tin, the one that's furthest away, her lower back dip, her hips push out, and suddenly, his mouth goes dry. He has never realized just how full her hips are, how round her – he shakes his head. How he missed this, he doesn't know. Now it seems to be the only thing he can focus on.

Over her shoulder, Korra shoots him an expectant look. "What's the matter? Dragon cat got your tongue?"

His chuckle is forced and when he does speak, his voice is strained. "Yeah, well, I learned from the best."

Her responding laugh is a short, deep sound that reminds him of the very first embers of a fire. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever speak again," she says as she settles back onto her haunches. "I didn't know you were such a dunderhead in the mornings."

She reaches over to rustle his hair and he dodges her hand, though he can't quite help the hiss that escapes him. Blue eyes widening, Korra pauses, her expression turning quizzical as her gaze roves over him. "Mako," she begins, but it's a lost cause.

"I told you I'm fine," he says as he leans back onto the balls of his feet and then, in a summoning of strength, pushes himself to his feet. The movement is hardly graceful as his arms are rendered useless by the sheer amount of crap he's holding in them and the fire in his side spikes.

"Clearly," she spits, mimicking his motions and rising to her feet. However, unlike him, she _is_ graceful, all taut muscles and lean sinewy and understated strength. As she folds her arms over her chest (right underneath her breasts, creating a cleft of cleavage, he notes with only the slightest hint of shame), her biceps flex and her brown skin ripples to accommodate.

It's distracting, but so is the way she's looking at him, with a pinch in her brow and pursed lips.

"Really," Mako insists as he adjusts the load in his arms and tries not to wince. "It's nothing. I just slept on my back wrong."

She can see right through his bullshit and they both know it. "Uh-huh."

Thoroughly annoyed, he rolls his eyes. "Aren't you tired?" he asks, eager to change the subject. The less she knows about his injuries, the better. The last thing he needs is someone worrying about him; he's the worrier of the group, the quiet one who doesn't let his guard down lest something terrible happen to any one of them because like it or not, he's not just looking after Bolin anymore, but Korra, too. He'll never tell her this, but somehow he thinks she already knows.

"Nice try," Korra laughs, a smile stretching her lips and causing a dimple to appear in the apple of her cheek. Funny – he didn't know she has dimples. "And even if I was tired," she adds as she bends over to pick up the last of the pots, spinning it around in her hand. "It's not like I could sleep in this heat. It's so hot." She tries to fan herself with the pot, but given that it's made of iron and is far heavier than it has any right to be, she ends up hitting herself on the chin.

A laugh sputters from his lips, but he swallows it as soon as her eyes narrow at him. "Laugh it up, Flame-o," she gripes as she rubs the spot on her chin. "At least I'm not hobbling around camp like some old lady."

"I am _not_ hobbling," protests Mako, with such petulance dripping from every word that he feels more than a little ridiculous. He drops the assortment of belongings in his arms on top of the small rock table that Bolin made the night before last. The tins clatter, the remaining pots knock together, and the noise resonates between them.

"Might as well be," Korra quips, though there's no heart in her insult, nothing like there usually is. Then she sighs and it's one of those sighs that makes _him_ feel bad even though he's not sure why. Her eyes search his face and her eyebrows knit together. "Look," she starts anew, her tone far gentler than it has been this entire time. "I'm not trying to patronize you or anything, Mako, but I _know_ you're not telling me the truth." She licks her lips slowly, hesitantly, and it speaks volumes. He isn't used to this sort of hesitation from her. The Korra he knows says whatever is on her mind, consequences be damned, and never apologizes to anyone, so it's more than a little unsettling to see her like this.

"Tell me," she says, tucking an errand lock behind her ear. Her eyes are curiously gentle as she asks, "How bad is it?"

He opens his mouth to deny her, but she pins him with that look, the one that means she's done with the bullshit, the one that tells him she's being serious. It's not a look he sees very often, but when he does, it sends a chill down his spine.

Expelling a deep breath, he grumbles under his breath as he turns around, exposing the heinous bruise that consumes the lower portion of his back, from the crest of his tailbone to the dark freckle near the center of his back. It's ugly at its core, a foul combination of purple and black that bleed into one another, darker in some areas and lighter in others, and it slowly fans out, the edges the kind of green that reminds her of vomit. The whole thing is ringed with a pale yellow and it makes her entire body hurt just looking at it. She can't imagine how he must feel, how much every motion must hurt.

"Oh, _Mako_," she gasps, unable to help herself. Only it's not a breathy gasp, it's an angry one. The knit of her eyebrows becomes stern and she's clenching her fist around the handle of the pot, contemplating knocking him over the head with it. "Are you an idiot? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because," he says, his nose wrinkling in pain as he turns to face her. "I knew you would react this way. I'm fine," he adds when she opens her mouth, a hand outstretched as though she wants to help him. "I don't need you to do your weird glow-y blue light healing thing."

Her eyebrow arches so high, he's not sure it'll ever sit right on her brow again. "Glow-y blue light healing thing?" she repeats flatly, though her eyes sparkle with amusement.

He huffs – and then winces. "You know what I mean," Mako grumbles irritably, moving to fold his arms over his chest, but the slightest pull of his muscles sends a ripple of ache coursing through his body, and he can't help wondering why he was ever grateful for this pain in the first place. Maybe he really is as insane as Bolin keeps telling him he is.

"Why don't you want my help?" she asks, confusion coloring her words, but there is clarity in her eyes, almost like she knows what his answer is going to be. "Is it because you don't want to owe me a favor?" She stares at him for a prolonged moment, and he can tell she's looking for a crack, some way to wiggle under his skin and make him relent. "If that's the reason, then you're being ridiculous. You're not going to owe me anything. Just -" she trails off, taking a step towards him, her previous hesitancy present in her every movement.

"Korra –"

"No, Mako!" she interjects firmly. The severity of her expression falters when she sees the gap of his mouth and the quirk in his eyebrows. A sigh falls from her lips before she can hold it back, and her entire body feels drained of energy. "Just – just let me help you, okay? You're always getting my ass out of trouble and well –" she reaches up to smooth her hair behind her ear, a begrudged look on her face "-it's about time I helped you." Korra locks eyes with him, her blue gaze sharp and piercing, but not all together unfriendly. "Please?"

The word hangs between them, stretched thin in the silence of the pre-dawn. The horizon is tinged with pale blues and a soft green, the sun still buried beneath the folds of violet that hang low in the sky. It's quite the sight, but so are the cobalt eyes boring into him with a kindness that he's not accustomed to and a desperation he thought he would never see. She wants to help him, not because she owes him (which she totally does) but because he's her – well, friend isn't quite the right word for it, but they've moved past the stage of acquaintances. There's something between them, something _real_, but he balks at the thought, unwilling to face it.

So instead, he sighs and gives the smallest nod of his head. "Fine," he breathes, the coils of tension in his shoulders unwinding as he sinks onto one of the rocks that they've been using as chairs. It's not at all comfortable and the firmness makes his back scream out, but he manages to hold it his groan as Korra darts back into her tent to retrieve her water skin.

As much as he likes to think he doesn't know why he's letting her do this, deep down, Mako knows the truth. The bruise on his back hurts, yes, and it's kind of her to offer to heal it for him, but that's not the true reason. Not really. He hasn't been looking for an excuse to sit down with Korra one on one – not outwardly anyway. They've had more than enough chances to get to know one another over the past five weeks; the friction between them has just prevented them from getting anywhere. It's still there and he has a feeling it always will be because that's just how they are, but there's something different about this morning. Like two plates striking, there's a shift between them. What has shifted, he doesn't know and he doubts he ever will.

Korra returns moments later, the faint breeze lazily pushing the stray tendrils of hair about her face, which she shoves aside with an annoyed flick of her wrist. Her slim fingers work at the cork, tugging and pulling until it finally gives. She chuckles. "Stupid thing," she remarks off-handedly as she comes to stand behind him. "This isn't going to be some quick fix. It looks like a deep-tissue bruise. And I can't promise that it won't hurt. Because it will," Korra explains, a wryness in her voice that makes him chuckle. "It's going to hurt like a bitch, but something tells me you can handle it."

"I'll do my best."

She smiles at him, a soft smile that makes her the dimple appear in her cheek again and the corners of her eyes wrinkle ever-so-slightly. It's much different from her smug smile, and he finds that he likes it much better. Korra doesn't say anything else as she bends the water out of the pouch slung over her shoulder, guiding the water over her hands until it surrounds her palms and her fingers like a glove.

"This might be a little cold," she warns before she lightly lays her hands on his back.

Cold is an understatement.

It's _freezing_.

Colder than any water he has ever tasted, colder than any water he has ever swum him. His teeth don't chatter, but a fine sprinkling of goose pimples dot his skin and the hairs on the back of his neck raise ever so slightly as she ghosts her touch over his flesh.

It's the strangest thing he's ever felt in his entire life. Mako can feel her hands through the water, can feel them coursing over his skin in slow, rhythmic circles, can feel the gentle strength in his fingers and yet he's aware that she's not touching him at all. It's the water, glacial and shocking and soothing, a bit like the girl wielding it and nothing like her at the same time. For now, she hovers over him, guiding the water over the surface of the bruise to alleviate the superficial pain.

He knows this is just the start of it, that there will be pain to come, more pain that he can imagine, but for now, he can't help the low moan that escapes him. It just feels so g_ood_. The combination of the cold and the way the water seems to dip underneath the surface of his skin, slowly easing the tight knots of tension and loosening the collapsed veins – it feels marvelous. He can't even be bothered to blush, not even when he hears Korra laugh at his expense.

Shoulders slumping forwards, Mako bows his head and closes his eyes, focusing on the way water dances over his skin, dipping low and washing over. It's soothing and jarring, the peculiar blend of hot and cold doing wonders for the soreness of his flesh, the stiffness in his muscles. He's so immersed in the subtle shift between the two that he hardly notices that she leans in closer until the tail ends of her hair tickle the nape of his neck.

Mako jerks, his back spasms, and Korra leaps away from him, a flush creeping up her neck and bleeding onto her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she says, a slight smile on her lips when she catches sight of the annoyed expression on his face. He glares at her for a moment before he turns his back to her, lowering his head and grumbling. If he's not grumbling about one thing, then he's mumbling about another. It's strangely endearing.

Clearing her throat, Korra continues her ministrations, the warmth of her hands radiating through the cold of the water. She's closer now; the skin of her palms all but touching the bruise. He feels the hum of the water, feels the way it pulls through his muscles and coaxes them to relent, to heal. He can feel the restoration taking place right beneath the surface and, having never been healed by a Waterbender before, he marvels at it. At the skill she possesses, at the effect she has on him.

It seems like hours before she steps back to survey her work, but when she takes her hands away from his skin and bends the water back into her pouch, time spills back into the hourglass and it feels like only mere minutes have passed. As loathe as he is to admit it, he misses her touch, which isn't really a touch at all.

"There, all done," she says, placing her hands on her hips and smiling. She's proud of herself, proud of the work she's done. The bruise is still there and it'll still hurt him, but the worst of it is gone, all traces of purple and black erased from his pale skin. "How do you feel?"

He twists around to face her, noting the pride in her face and the way the dimple all but leaps out at him, demanding his attention and capturing it quite easily. It's cute, the way it sets deep into her left cheek, with absolutely no trace of its twin in her right. It makes her smile look a little lopsided, but he's always thought that symmetry was highly overrated anyway.

"Better," he answers, returning her smile with a small one of his own. "Thanks." Mako meets her eyes and sees a vastness in the endless blue depths. He's only just beginning to see her, and it's dizzying. There's something comforting in the endlessly, and though he feels like he could get lost it in, it's not accompanied by the tickle of fear but rather something else entirely. He doesn't want to name it – he's not even sure there _is_ a name for it, but it's there between them, it's a real thing, even though she has a habit of blurring things until he doesn't know which way is up.

It's not friction and it's not quite a spark, but he feels the heat of it in the pit of his stomach. He knows it's something he won't ever get used to, and he doesn't think he ever wants to.

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><p><strong>AN: **Finally, a full-length Makorra fic! There's plenty more where that came from, I assure you. Hope you enjoyed it!


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